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2014.02.13 - Nights in White Phosphorous
It was a long evening for Heather. She was hanging out with her new friend and coming back to the Tower to grab a change of clothing. Her penthouse was actually further away than the tower. So she parked her Heathermobile (really just a Toyota Prius in a light blue (but not powder blue) shade, in the lot and got out to wait for the late night ferry over to the island where the giant T shaped tower stands. As she stands there waiting, she curses the inability to fly like everyone else seems to have these days. She rips open a high concentrate military style power bar to get some calories into her body. Late at night, just standing there on the shore, a young woman alone. Yeah, she could be the target of several stakeouts and all... as designated victim to be? The Creeper casually hops off a boat in the harbor, a private yachty sort of affair reserved for the idle rich playboy Bruce Wayne type losers. This one belonged to Cornelius Thorpe-Waldorf Jr., a prematurely bald fratboy. Killed three people in a DUI last year. Very publicly got charges reduced, only paid a fine. Currently sitting on deck with two broken legs, a broken jaw and a bottle of Jack Daniels shoved somewhere VERY uncomfortable. Hint hint: it's up his ass. Creeper giggles slightly to himself, somersaulting down the boardwalk, doing the occasional cartwheel, "I get no kick....from champaaaaaaaaaaaaagne..." Phantasma, Heather's new friend, meanwhile wasn't the sort to be left behind. Not yet anyway. She wouldn't need to sleep for days... no matter how much Heather said it was late and she should be getting some sleep. Bah! She doesn't need sleep! When the car comes to a stop she pulls herself, invisible, out of the trunk and has a look around. For now she's just content to keep herself invisible though, and follow her friend around. She'd resist the urge to put on the horror show for now. Sometimes its not all fun and games. Or, its not all torture and killing. Either way the man known as the Punisher has found his way down to the harbor speaking to a contact. Some snot faced sniveling junky who is obviously worth more alive at this point. A few shared words are had before the degenerate is sent on his way and the man with the deathshead t-shirt concealed is making his way back. Dressed in black, head to toe is Frank Castle. His combat boots, black. His tactical fatigues, black. His overcoat, black. His hair, well, you get the picture. Heavy steps rumble the dock now as he continues on his way. <'Two hours. Leaves me two hours to get to Brooklyn, minus a quick stop at-'> Seeing the man doing cartwheels causes him pause and he stops to take in his surroundings now. The scene seems weird to say the least and he is quirking a brow as a scowl forms on his scarred features. Late night patrols. The way Trauma did his patrols was different than the way most of his peers did -- while they might leap from rooftop to rooftop, or fly through the air, or run through the streets at super speed... he walked, and whistled. The song that was being whistled was definitely recorded before he'd been born, but that didn't stop its melancholy melody from fitting his mood. Hands were tucked in the pockets of his slacks, and honestly? If it weren't for the fact that the teen was dressed head to toe in black, he'd be a perfect candidate for 'victim', too. Instead, he tends to be the unnoticed. Unnoticed when crime starts, at least... because that's when his 'other half' makes an appearance. For the moment though, it was just a matter of shuffling along. Waiting to stumble upon something awful and have it become all the worse. Typhoid Mary's on her way home from a successful assassination. Some schmuck who said the wrong thing, promised to testify against a person he shouldn't, begged for his life, said he had kids--didn't see no pictures of kids or nothin'--offered to do anything, anything... And, well, this one was bloodless--*SNAPcrick...THUD*--and quick. She wasn't in the mood to play. She's irritated. Slamming the door to his slumpartment, she tromps her way down the stairs, her unnaturally red, thin dreads dancing with the movement--her boobies are a'jigglin', too, but if someone pointed that out, right about now, they'd get a fist to the throat. Exiting the building, she scowls to herself and starts arguing, aloud. "'No, Wade, no. You can't keep that stinking fucking couch!' I said. 'No! It is filled with rats and hobo shit!' I said. 'I don't CARE that you found it for free, get RID of it,' I said. But, I bet you anything, by the time I get home, that stinkin' fuckin' couch will be there," she grouses into the cool night air, her angry muttering voice (much like the rest of her body) issuing a steady stream of steamy plumes of heat. She is not paying attention to her surroundings, stomping silently on the cracked sidewalk, her arms wrapped tightly across her chest, chin tucked to chest... But, what... She comes to a full halt, silently retching. "WHAT IS THAT GODFUCKAWFUL STENCH?" she blurts out. "The FUCK is it?! WHAT IS IT?! Oh, my GOD. It's like... A CORPSE mated with VOMIT and had a SICKPUKE child of ROT," she continues, her eyes tearing up, halting in her steps. It's...Creeper, though she does not yet know the source of this disgusting aroma. And so, as these things tend to be, in a world of metahumans and other oddities, there are folks who have a hard on to make a name for themselves by taking down someone 'known'. Known, in this case, means being an official member of the Titans supergroup. They didn't do enough homework though, because when the villain in dark gray (not black of course) skintight spandex fires a single round from their Barret fifty caliber rifle... the report strikes the ears in the area. But not before the large bullet rips through Heather from behind, entering just to the left of her spinal column, and well... the damage the spilled soda caused to her shirt earlier is a thing of the past, since the bullet basically blows out her left chest cavity. (Not describing the gore, just assume it sucks). Apparently, the shot was the opening of an assault intended to bring down Titan's Tower as shadowy shapes begin pouring out of a warehouse and head towards where Heather -was- waiting for the Ferry. But.. the sniper is up there, on a rooftop. With just the single shot to give any indication as to the direction he, she, or it might be in. Meanwhile, there is a motorcycle zooming around, through the harbor. Moon Knight is looking for his next person to wreak family-friendly (aka blood and battering) violence on. And then, as he rides by, the bullets ring out. Girl falls down infront of him, fatal wound. The bike halts to a stop, as he's eying around, looking for the sniper, "Shit. Okay, this is not good.". He's leaping off the bike, truncheon being drawn, as he heads towards the body, and the people approaching it. The shot rings out, and there's a sudden SHRIEK of surprise! Nobody would have a body to attatch this shriek to, as the girl who made it is completely invisible! At best she might register as slightly warmer than the winter air, but nowhere near as warm as a person. Out of the ground in front of Heather, the crown of a head lifts as though the pavement wasn't even there. Then a pair of grey, mildly concerned looking eyes, and finally an arm. Dap! Phantasma gently prods Heather on the forehead "H-hey... you okay? You.. uhm.. don't get hurt... right?" Castle is still scowling at the man who certainly looks nothing like a man. That much is obvious now. But, before he can comment or think that shot rings out. Instinct takes hold and he is diving for cover. NAturally his eyes go to the direction of the shot. Since he is Frank Castle it is quite easy for him to ascertain the location but damnit if he isn't far away. <'Wasn't meant for me. Not that bastard eiter. 50. cal.'> Drawing his own gun now, a Sig-sauer in black finish he sees the other baddies pouring out. <'Strict file. These fucks have training'> So does Frankie as they soon find out when he pops up and unleashes the first clip in their direction. Not his fight but they don't seem to be asking quesions first either. The Creeper lands in a crouch, knees bent, arms extended out. He's about to leap into the air to perform a beautiful pas de deux with mustard when two things happen. First, he sees Frank, the surly man standing directly across from him, looking as if he just smelled ferret vomit. The other is the sharp rifle crack as Heather gets the leaky cauldron treatment from Crackshot Secretman. As the shot rings out, he slaps his hands on his ass, crying out, "OH PARDON ME! TACO BANDITO, I PAY YOUR FOUL PRICE AGAIN!" he calls, then breaks out into laughter just as Mary comes stomping into his line of sight and Frank draws his guns, "Whoa, there, Clint, old boy, let's talk a-BOOBIES!! OOH I SEE BOOBIES!" Creeper laughs, hopping up and down and clapping his hands. This would be the moment where things get bad. Still in civvie mode, when the shot rings out and the girl falls to the ground, Trauma /runs/ over to help. "Shit, shit, shit." he says aloud, starting to kneel down to the ground only to see... a head popping out of the asphalt? There's a brief stare, but then he looks back to the wounded-or-worse one. "...I don't suppose you know anything about first aid?" Freaked out? Not really. Maybe a little surprised. He's seen worse. He's /been/ worse. /Much./ Which is why the other black-clad male has the attention span to be dialing 911 with his other hand... even while the phone's still in his pocket. Teenagers just have skills with that with phones, you know. As the shot rings out, Typhoid Mary instinctively brings up her TK shield--which thankfully reduces the stench of Creeper...who ends up right in front of her. She backs away, repulsed as the filth clown does his odd jumping and clapping dance. "SICK," she exhales in horror and awe, and presses up against the wall of the building beside her. Then, her attention shifts to the scurrying people. Big, tall man in a black coat coming out of an alley. Wonder Schmuck (Moon Knight) from the Death Diner fiasco on his Schmuck Bike. A girl, lying on the street, bleeding. Another boy? man? leaning over her. ... She starts scanning the rooftops for the sniper--'cause it was one shot and the streets are otherwise empty. Gotta be the roof. She keeps backing away from Creeper, closer to the scene where the girl is on the ground...and another's head is popping OUT of it. Well, it's weird, but no weirder than she's seen, before. She keeps her eyes skyward and even does a little telepathic scan to see if she can sense the direction... Too many minds, not good enough telepathy. As Moon Knight runs up, he stops as he spots Frank. Three men appear around Moony. One in a cabbie cap, one with a scar over his left eye, and one in a suit. Only Moony can see them however, but they're all in his mind. -Fuck, it's him. You should kick his ass again.-. The cabby, Jake says. Then Steven, the business man speaks. -Violence isn't necessary. Make sure the girl is alright first, vigilante.-. And then Marc, the usually dominant speaks. -Moon Knight. He seems to be helping. Take out the assassins, and then kick his ass.-. Moon Knight grins, nodding. "Alright, I'll go with Marky.". To no one, apparently, as he's tossing crescent darts at the assassins, truncheon split into truncheon chucks. The approaching men and women, there are twenty two men on the ground. Those with military experience like Frank and Spectre might recognize not only the formation, but the training behind it. These guys are either current active, or former Spetsnaz. This particular deoloyment is a double squad formation. Single man per squad in overwatch cover. There was only one sniper shot that rang out, but they way these guys are moving... there's -got- to be a second sniper. The guys also have infrared vision enhancing monacles, with IR laser sights on the weapons. They're moving and as Frank pops up and opens fire, one of them goes down with at least four rounds in his ballistic vest and one that avoided it to strike right on the head. One down, twenty three to go right? Unfortunately for Frank, the rest of the squad that man was assigned to react as expected. Three of them slide into prone shooting positions and lay down fire with AK's towards Frank's position in general. Two others move into covered locations, and the sniper... well, their sniper is the one who fired already, and that light fifty is searching for a new target. The other squad continues moving forward, not slowing down. Their objective is the ferry, and they're moving doubletime, Moon Knight's blatantly visible costume drawing -their- sniper's attention. That one is using a rifle with more ammo, but less power. It's a 7.62mm PSG-1 on a bipod mount. This one is also suppressed so even less penetration power and even less chance of noticing any muzzle flash. This as those darts go flying. Fire -is- returned in the form of half a dozen AK-47's blazing towards Moon Knight, not even charitable enough to split fire at the other images (in his mind that is). Just at -him-. One goes down under the dart assault. Again, a lucky toss that got past the ballistic vest. For her part, Heather should be flat out dead. Any normal person missing half their ribcage, one lung, and most of her heart would have been dead in an instant. But those on the scene can see the tissue and muscle already restoring itself. Boy, she's going to be HUNGRY when done here. But she lays there, not responding to the prod at her head but... she is healing. Anyone watching the strange head poking out of the ground, or half poking out, would see the eyes shift from tenative worry, to strong concern, to a rather intense sort of anger. "Who....", came a quiet, but almost shaking voice. The phantom girl was rising up out of the ground, quite visible for the time being. Her head starts to scan around, seeing people popping up here and there, noticing other people here... rrgh.. no. It wasn't anyone this close. Taking a deep breath, she rises up, and a horrible, mournful wail fills the air. The more fearless of the group should shake it off easily enough, but her scream has been known to linger with people. Still... glaring still angry she rises up into the air like a shot, like she was swimming effortlessly, casting her eyes around above the treeline. "WHO'S THERE?!" Comes a horrible voice, completely unlike hers. It was... broken, sorrowful.. it was her haunting voice. Especially for scaring people. "TRY THAT AGAIN!" <'Russian. Movement's too familiar.'> Castle pops back down just in time for the crateds and rails to absorb the 7.62x3.4 rounds. Or the 7.62.5.9's He is not Deadpool and can't remember, Regardless they TING-TANG off the metal around him and he drops his magazine, thumb to the release as his left hand pulls another. Afterr the swift reload he pulls a incendiary grenade and blindly tosses it in there general direction. After the blast of Phosphorus begins to engulf them he will chance another pop up releasing a half dozen rounds and catching a few of the on flame targets. Moonknight is not noticed but the sniper taking shots is. Franks good, little muzzle flashes are noticed or he is lucky this time. When he sees the target though he decides to shift back. Theres always more, and these guys want the ferry by the docks. Pinned down now by more approaching he drops into cover again. A pipebomb made with a paper towel roll produced and light with a zippo as he stares at the wick....sizzling....About this time he looks up at the shriek. <'Another one of these? Goddamnit.'> For his part, Trauma takes a moment to examine the wound, enough to notice that... that's not really very human. Which is a /great/ thing in the case of the fallen one. "Looks like you're gonna be okay, just play de-..." That's when the scream happens. There's a very specific dread that fills the dark-clad teen, although it's not because of the ghostly horror-- ghostly horror that he's very specifically /NOT/ looking at. Instead, a hand moves to go over Heather's eyes. Just incase she wakes up and looks up. "Don't be afraid, miss... everything's going to be okay, just Don't. Be. Afraid..." As his own voice takes on a terrible tone, Trauma allows his mind to wander. Seeking the thoughts of fear that might be lingering after that wail. The Creeper does what he always does when someone backs away from him: starts to pursue. He shuffles towards Mary, arms outstretched, scabby yellow hands makin' the universal "I WANNA SQUEEZE 'EM" gesture, like some kind of leprous tit-zombie (Hmmmmmmm...Leprous Tit-Nazi...good band name or BEST band name?). His mouth is puckered up, making moist suckling sounds as he lurches towards her. As Frank's phosphorous detonates and the gunfire starts in earnest, Creeper turns and stares, bulgy eyed at the chaos. "HEY, PIPE DOWN, YOU TRIGGER HAPPY...PEOPLE! YOU'RE COMIN' BETWEEN A MAN AND THE MAMMARIES HE LO--." A stray bullet goes through the side of Creeper's neck. A gout of crimson shoots up for a moment, a little hose of blood that tapers slowly as it starts to heal almost immediately. "That's it. I've had it. I just wanted to spend my night having wholesome, all american fun: crippling a man, stuffing his ass with whiskey and then doing the porpoise plow with Knifey McJugs! But nooooooooooooooooo, you have to have a shootout. FINE! Have at ye, then!" And Creeper leaps, fete first into the fray, his bare heels colliding with and caving in two helmets as his laugh rings out, a wicked, eerie and spine tingling thing that ALSO scares cowardly people (Phantasma, you'll be hearing from my LAWYER). As the incendiary grenade goes off, Typhoid Mary's lucky she has her TK shield up, 'cause it protects her from the shrapnel--even though the concussive force knocks her back against the wall--and the Creeper's disgusting, pus-wet paws that try to grope at her. "FUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK," she howls in response, her ears ringing, her eyes blinded for the moment. The creepy wail from the ghost, and the screeching from Creeper... The thrumming of blood in her ears... She blinks furiously and, though she can't hear very well, she's beginning to be able to see. And, now, Typhoid Mary's /pissed/. Her eyes wide and wild, she starts setting motherfuckers on FIRE. "All right! If that's the way you want it, you shitsuckers, you GOT IT. BURN, FUCKERS, BURRRRRRRRRRRRRN," she screams, watching their phosphorous-covered tactical suits start bursting into flames. She also begins flinging shrapnel and spent shell casings at weak spots where she sees them--a forehead here, a jugular there. She is straight up MURDERING people in combat wear. Whilst the assault rifles miss, the sniper shot hits Moony in an armored piece, causing him to stumble but no damage due to the carbonadium. "Fucking..bullshit. Let's go at it.". Ignoring the incendiary, Moony is leaping onto his bike, riding towards the tradictory of the bullet, letting the other guys take care of the punks. Once he arrives at the most plausible location, he fires up his grappler, scaling his cover...no one there. And then sees the guy from another building, night vision and all that. Marc's firing his grappler into him, pulling it and releasing, planning on the guy flying straight towards him. Physics does not work this way, the guy crashing into the road below, dead. "Oops.". And then Moony's leaping off the building to get back on his bike to head to the others. And then.. chaos. When I say chaos, I don't mean something cute like a D&D Chaotic alignment, or even something playful like a prank from Loki. I mean like... warzone mixed with random insanity. Especially when the white phosphorous goes off, and things begin burning that really shouldn't burn. Metal, kevlar, even flame retardant materials will burn at those temperatures. Soldiers burst into flame, and screams that they can't hold back erupt into the night. Sure, they are nothing compared to the fearful wail of the ghost... Russian voices begin making exclamations, and fears flood the mind of Trauma while several of the gunmen attempt to turn their fear into aggression. Meanwhile, others fail at that and they don't turn and run so much as just stop, frozen in fear. And -both- snipers figure that the flying wailing thing is a threat. And so two bullets pass right through her. One with a LOUD report, and the other not so much. Other fears reach Trauma, those of the men on fire but that's not exactly surprising. Any who survive will likely have fire based phobias or PTSD after this. Of course, some of those fears suddenly stop reaching out to Trauma as the men expire. Frank is living up to his legend. He's killed half that squad already! And then... Creeper begins his jitterbug of death. (Yeah, I made that up just now! It's mine, I have a patent on it. I suppose I'll let Creeper use that term in the future, though.) But heads smash, helmet caved in, and then comes even more chaos when Mary begins mucking with the battlefield. Bullets exploding in the weapons and in ammo packs. Over the next few seconds, twenty four men are whittled down to six. Two of which are those pesky snipers. One of the four on the ground has a clever idea... okay, it's an evilnastybad idea. He whips out a LAW. Yep, a one shot, disposable, rocket launcher, and fires a rocket towards the white-clad motorcyclist as he charges the warehouses. *fwooooooooooom* *KABOOM!* Well, Moon Knight is going to need a new motorcycle, and when his head stops spinning, he'll find himself in the water of the harbor... having been thrown from the bike while the armor saved his life. Up in the air, the ghost girl can't really think of a plan. What... does she do now? Down below.. well things seemed okay. Someone was with her friend.. thats... good. People are usually nice to normal.. er.. more normal people right? BAM! White phosphorous, lots of screaming, where did they think they were coming.. *THWIP!* She felt it! There it was! A small piece of lead clean through her shoulder. It came from... behind? She wheels around and... WHFF! Sure enough, a bullet goes right through her brain. So.. you were that way huh?! Leaving her friend to everyone else for now, Phantasma starts to zip off in the direction she was being shot from. Her eyes squint, she does her best to try to pick out a sign of something.. anything! She was usually up at night, but its not like she had any kind of super vision. Pun's still got that pipe bomb. *sizzle* He has decent timing to and when he stands the rocket is fired. Winging the makeshift device at the mook it explodes right beneath his legs. His appendages adding to the chaos. With reckless abandon he hops the rails and walks cooly across the killing zone. Death has its murky touch about him as bullets whizz by and surely it /is/ Death itself that keeps him alive. Crouching he picks up a kalishnikov and staying knelt begins to return fire. Three round bursts ripping into his first target. No sense in going fully auto with a newly retrieved weapon. Creeper is, indeed, doing a bit of jitterbugging, along with a disturbing amount of lambada, charleston and just a hiiiiint of the froog. The result is quite destructive, his claws shredding through armor, his kicks hard enough to send men flying ten feet. He actually grabs a man by the ankles and starts to use him as a flail, battering other soldiers with his half-conscious noggin, "OOOOOOOOOH, HELMET TO HELMET! That's a ten yard penalty and you are out of the game, number 34. Hit the showers and no backtalk. You, hey you, I see you there, don't shoot at me when I'm talking to you, little mister! I'm gonna grab your tonsils and I'm gonna give them SUCH A PINCH!" Telepathy, even narrow as Trauma's can be, can be overwhelming when enough minds are around and there's no practice in shutting them out. Thanks to the combined efforts of the rest of the heroes, there's quite a few prominent fears. People getting set on fire. Ghosts flying up in the air. This isn't good at all. When he notices the hand covering Heather's eyes spark a flame? That's when he realizes It's Time To Go. Because he's not sure /who/ was scared of the fire, and the last time he tried it in a big crowd... "I know... what... what you... NO! Not... this time! " he exclaims, shaking his head forcefully. With that? Like brave, brave Sir Robin -- and with parts of him sparking into flames with each movement -- Trauma runs for it. Once he gets far enough from the onset of fear, 911 will be filled in. Granted, by that time most everyone will be dead, but /someone/ has to clean the bodies up, right? ... after looting, of course. Typhoid Mary just sort of stalks through the dead and dying, the smell of burning plastic, hair, and flesh, the smell of urine, blood, and shit... She laughs, tilting her head back and HOWWWWWWWWLing at the moon. One of the last remaining mooks on his feet reaches out to grab her. She whips his arm around into an armbar and slams it down on her upward flying knee, BREAKING the bone quite audibly and messily...through the skin beneath his gear. Then, in a smooth flowing dance of death, she swings his body around by that broken arm and, bending her back gracefully, kicks her leg in a backward arch to nail him in the FACE, driving his nose cartilage up into his brain. Just to be sure, she slings him down on the ground and curbstomps his head. THEN, she sets him on fire. "WHO'S LEFT, HUH?" she bellows, throwing her arms out at waist level, her hips thrust forward, her eyes ablaze and her tongue lapping at some bloodspray that got on her from...somewhere, someone. She continues to pelt any visible piece of flesh with whatever shrapnel is nearby, slinging it fast and hard, so it slices through the skin and drives deep into the meat. "WHO WANTS TO FUCK? I mean, WITH ME. WHO WANTS TO FUCK WITH ME NOW?!" she laughs crazily, scanning the chaos and death surrounding her, her body throbbing with heat almost as much as the flames that lick the air around her. And as Phantasma charges the rooftops, she takes another shot. There! There's a flash from the huge barrel and muzzle of the fifty. The sniper who was more sneaky decides.. fuck that. Especially after Mary's tirade. He's slipping off into the night to report to their commander that the Titans apparently have a lethal mix of cover security forces available and on call at a second's notice! Heather meanwhile, has already healed enough to wake up and sit up and is now reaching into the car to grab her jacket so she can cover up. A fifty caliber exit wound makes for quite the wardrobe malfunction in that thin tee-shirt she had on. And then, on the ground, it's quiet. The big gun up top rings out once more, not shooting at anyone down on the street. Just the sounds of death and dying in the air. This would be a good time for some of the extra-legal (note: WANTED!) types to melt into the night. Or maybe to prance along the battlefield, rolling in the dead bodies like a dog with mental problems. Who knows?! But Phantasm still has that one guy shooting at her... as she approaches. See, his Infrared optics were able to pick her warmth out in the air, despite her movement and invisibility. Hah! Take that! well, not like the bullets hurt but still! THWIP! Phantasma cries out loudly and grabs her shoulder, doing perhaps a slightly overly dramatic spin in the air and just dropping like a rock... keeping her back to the building to hide her smirk. Found you... She fades from sight and shoots through the ground, then up through the building. She didn't know he had infra red, but it wouldn't serve him much good once she hit the ground.. and went through it. No this guy she wanted to TERRIFY! Moving through the air without actually touching a thing, she mimics crawling over his back. Hand placed between his shoulder blades, knee on his hip, she leans right up to his ear. There was a bit of a flash of fury on her face, before she suddenly SHRIEKS right in his ear! With a spasm, the poor man actually drops his rifle out the window! With a curse he wheels around, and says something at her. Something mean.. something in russian! But his lunge at her proves useless, as he literally dives THROUGH her and into the wall. "Wha.. I.. I don't like how that sounded!". 'Walking' across the floor heatedly, she picks up a large hunk of wood. The soldier draws his pistol, trying to back away, but shot after shot rings clean through her body. With a heave, just after hearing the 'click' of the final bullet, she clubs it out of his hand! Bending over, she reaches one hand into his chest. Her face was one of rage, something Heather thankfully wouldn't see. Frustrated, but also cruelly satisfied. "You shot my friend..." she whispers in a deathly whisper, drawing her hand back and dragging her cold finger up his body through his clothes. "Right... here." With a shove he yelps, feeling it touch bone, muscle... chilling through him. This is the part where a dark puddle starts to form. "So... you break my friends heart..." she hisses, moving both her hands into his chest, cupping around a very vital organ, stroking it... "I crush yours." He flailed, he struggled, he shouted for mercy butt o no avail. His hands simply went through her, and he couldn't move away. She just whispered "One... two... THREE!" And with a shout clasps her hands! A few moments later she was riffling through his pockets. Pathetic... he actually passed out. As if she could just solidify inside his body... Oh well. Wallet, ID, valuables, anything of note.. she picks this poor soldier dry. With a sigh she ties him good and tight, then turns to walk back out the window. It was much slower she started on her way back to Heather though, poor girl a little worn out from flying so fast to catch that bastard. Wonder what she'll think of Phanta's kleptoness now, if it gives a clue! Frank's Russian assault rifle starts that familiar rattle of an empty mag about the same time Mary starts to howl. Looking over he watches as she snaps the mans arm and lights him ablaze, the flames reaching at the sky in all their glory. Dropping the AK he reaches in his coat, drawing a small automatic pistol, Tek-9 perhaps, too hard to tell as he keeps it low while she screams for more victims. A lip curls up and he shakes his head, as if to say -no trouble over here-. As the shrapnel swarms some cuts at his face adding to the many scars and it begins to pelt off the kevlar below his coat, tiny shreds forming on his trencher. A few steps are taken back before he turns and heads back down to the docks to retrace his steps. The Creeper has started to scamper away, dragging one unfortunate mercenary along by the skull, Creeper's savage nails piercing his head like a crown of thorns as he pulls him along, "Come on, Billy the Kid...we's a gone-a have us a showdown. On one side, you with a severe concussion and potentially crushed scrotum. On the other side, me, dangling your bleedin carcass over the shark tank at the aquarium...ooh, I hope there are zombie ones again. SUCH FUN! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH..." the laugh trailing off as he takes his prey. Typhoid Mary almost seems disappointed when the silence rings out after Creeper drags off his prey. Just the flickering of fires that are dying out, turning to crispy embers of bodyshells. She lets her arms drop to her sides and takes a deeeeeeeep breath, then continues making her way home. She doesn't stop to check on the girl that originally got shot, or the people tending her. They're either dead or they're out of the way and she's got to get home. Wade's probably dragged another huge pile of shit inside the place. Or, Harley's done something unthinkable to a pizza delivery guy. It's kinda hard being the sanest of all the crazy people in one area. She saunters a little more sultrily than she did, before... Almost as though she's got the afterglow of sex. 'Cause, y'know, murder does something special to her. So relaxing. She sighs happily and kicks a helmet across the street and begins singing on her way out of the area. Category:Log